The Fire Beneath the Shadows
By the time Isaac led Ronan away from the fast-food joint, the streets of elite citified space had emptied. A very grand facade of marble-edged walls and ornately decorated gates opened into something a lot humbler: a winding path into the bowels of the city.
Ronan went silently after him; boots crunching across rough cobblestones. With every step, the polish of the city faded away until narrow alleys, patched roofs, and a sweet damp smell of earth began warming up.
Isaac moved about with the confidence of a person who belonged here. Even at his tender age, he knew precisely where he was going.
Finally they arrived at a makeshift site squashed between two abandoned buildings. Within they would discover a gathering of tents and rotting wooden shacks for temporary lodging-the abode of the unfit into the so-called perfection of the city.
Isaac stopped before a small dilapidated tent, proudly gestured at it. "Home," he said simply.
Ronan raised an eyebrow. It barely seemed big enough for a child and certainly not a safe place to spend the night.
Before he was able to voice his opinion, Isaac turned to the cluster of people gathered around an out-door fire just outside the tent. The warm flicker from flames did play against their faces in deep shadows, cast out as they conversed in quiet murmured tones.
"The servants of the royal families," Isaac further explained though with quieter voice. "During the day, they work inside the palaces, but at night… they come here to talk. Share news. Secrets."
Ronan gazed over the group at which men and women were dressed practically plain clothes. They bore the weariness of life, tempered by what joint hope might keep them going, the fact that they are not just domestic servants but survivors.
As soon as they saw Isaac, their faces brightened. "There you are, kid!" one of them called. "And you brought a friend!"
Isaac grinned and pulled Ronan forward. The strangers welcomed them without hesitation, shifting their seats to make room around the fire. The warmth of their acceptance was oddly comforting.
Ronan settled down to observe, curious but wary, as the talk went on.
A woman with sharp intelligent eyes leaned forward, lowering her voice. "Did you hear? Lady Evelyne's daughter just turned ten. She got her anchor card today."
Beside her, a young man sighed faintly. "An illusion card," he muttered, shaking his head. "A weak one."
"Too bad," said another. "She has always been kind. Not like the of her family."
Ronan listened intently, but before he could process that information, someone chimed in.
"Oh, and did you know?" an elderly woman whispered. "Two children from House Veltros and House Aldren were kidnapped in broad daylight."
Ronan's attention snapped to her. Kidnapped? During the day?
Isaac looked equally alarmed. "What? When?"
"Just yesterday," the woman went on, lowering her voice as if afraid someone might overhear. "Right within the royal district. No ransom notes, no demands. Just… gone."
Ronan leaned in. "Do they know who took them?"
She glanced around as if checking that no unwanted ears were listening in, then, in a hushed tone, replied:
"Yes. And I could tell you exactly how it happened."
The crackle of the fire between them; holding the weight of her sentences.
Ronan suspected everything was going to be different from now on because of what she was going to say next.
The Teacher Who Wasn't
The glow of the fire crackled to life, casting flickering shadows on the weary faces that witnessed the story. Ronan was leaning away. The pulse beat somewhere in his throat, and slowly, the woman went on.
"There had recently been a teacher brought who was supposed to help the children focus their magical power and make them stronger," she barely whispered. "You know how it is, them chasing after those ten core anchor cards. Always desperate for their children to stand among the strongest."
The fire crackled around them, casting sinister shadows over the assembly. Some senior servants exchanged uneasy glances, as if they were already privy to the story's import.
"But he wasn't a teacher," she said darkly. "He was a fraud, a charlatan. He was not interested in instructing them—he was observing them."
A shudder went down Ronan's spine. Studying them?
The woman nodded as though she had been reading his mind. Bitterly she said, "He earned their trust. Made them think he was helping. But the whole time, it was just a waiting game for him. Watching them. Learning their strengths. And then-"
She snapped her fingers.
"---he took them."
The snap reverberated through the calmness of the night.
Ronan tightened his grip on the cloak. "How?" he asked, his voice more hoarse than he had thought it would be.
The woman looked around before answering, as if checking for unseen listeners. "No one knows for sure. But one night, there was a terrible storm. You know the kind that shakes the walls and rattles the chandeliers. And in the morning, the two strongest children were just," she said sweeping her arms wide, fingers slipping through the air like sand, "gone."
"Vanished?" Issac asked, frowning.
The woman nodded darkly. "Not a single footprint. No forced doors. No signs of struggle. Just... gone."
Somebody drew in breath sharply. Another servant muttered something about "bad omens".
Ronan's stomach turned. A storm. No signs of a break-in. No magic detected. That was far from an ordinary abduction.
That was enchantment.
The woman proceeded, lowering her voice a notch. "The worst part? The parents didn't even fight it."
Veins in Ronan's forehead popped. "What do you mean?"
Bending forward, she looked around and whispered, "It's like he had them under a spell."
A shiver rippled down Ronan's spine.
"Once he told the parents their children were gone, they just... accepted it. No rage, no tears. They barely reacted. Like they somehow knew already and just went along with it."
Issac's fingers twisted beside him.
Another servant began to speak. "I never did like that man. He was rude with us and to the kids, too. But with the parents?" The man looked both disgusted and very uneasy. "He would change just like that. Polite, suddenly. Almost... charming."
Tightening in Ronan's chest.
"His name," he demanded. "What was his name?"
A pause.
The woman frowned in thought. "His name was... I think it was Mark?"
"No," another man interrupted sharply. "It was Marcus."
Ronan felt the blood drain from his face.
The fire crackled. The shadows appeared to extend.
Marcus.
His stomach twisted violently.
It couldn't be.
But every terrible thing that had ever happened in his life had always come back to Marcus.
Pieces of a Forgotten Truth
Isaac tightened his grip around Ronan's wrist as his voice fell to barely above a whisper beneath the crackling inferno.
"It is him."
Ronan turned sharply.
His face was basically pale, expression haunted.
"Marcus is the same person who talked with my parents. The one who made them..." he murmured.
He swallowed hard and couldn't go on.
But Ronan didn't need him to.
Torture.
The word went unspoken but hung there, between the two like some spectre.
Ronan's tightened jaw clenched further as the dark and undeniable shapes began to click into place.
The Tower card.
The second enchanted card's vision.
What he had seen... Pain flashing through destruction.
A woman showing him glimpses of a world that did not yet exist.
But there had been a man too. Someone beside her.
Ronan's breath hitched.
Wait.
Why can't I remember?
His mind grasped for the memory, but it was like smoke, eluding his grasp.
An empty void. An empty space where a name-a face-should be. His pulse raced faster and faster.
Who was he?
Why did it feel like it mattered?
Ronan shook his head hard, pushing the thought away.
He couldn't afford distractions, and not now.
One thing he was sure about, though. Marcus was looking for something. And whatever it was, had something to do with the enchanted cards.
That explained everything.
The kidnappings.
The lies.
The way Marcus crawled into powerful places, watching, waiting.
But still, one question remained.
The why.
Why did Marcus need the cards?
Why was he snatching up children, only the very powerful ones?
And most importantly... What was coming?
Threads of the Past
It came silent in that small gathering when the conversation fell darker. The crackling fire threw flickering shadows on their faces, illuminating expressions of unease and sorrow.
"But this isn't the first time this has happened, you know?" a woman, with voice quiet yet firm, spoke.
Ronan turned towards her; she was older, with aged lines of weariness on her face and still hers were sharp eyes-the types which saw a lot yet remembered everything.
Another man sitting cross-legged near the fire nodded in agreement. "Many royal families have lost their most powerful children over the years. None of them were ever tracked or found."
A chill ran down Ronan's spine.
How deep did this go?
He came forward. "But didn't the Royals take some measures?"
The man scoffed; "they try. But somehow, they always end up under that man's control."
Marcus.
Ronan tightened his grip on his knee.
What kind of power did he possess? Manipulating even the highest-ranking bloodlines?
Then another voice cut in, styling through the air at night.
"I remember… the family Flint worked for."
Ronan's breath caught.
The man- one of the servant- continued in a low voice with touches of horror.
"His son was taken two years ago. Strongest of his generation- one of the strongest."
The woman beside him shook her head and wrapped her arms around herself. "But worse part wasn't boy's disappearance."
She looked up, eyes glistening with the firelight reflection.
"It was the massacre that followed."
The flames popped in the silence that followed.
"Entire family massacred. Every last one of them. And the boy? He was never found."
Ronan's chest felt - no tightened - as if something was pulling him inwards.
A kind of invisible force, a feeling so visceral it nearly knocked the breath out of him.
Something was wrong.
Something was also missing.
His fingers curled instinctively around the blue stone in his pocket as one single weighty thought formed. I need to know more.
Ronan swallowed hard, steadying his voice.
"Is Flint here?"
The old woman studied him, her gaze heavy with something unreadable.
A Locked Past
Ronan tightened his hands into fists, and he did not want any disgruntlement betraying his expression.
Flint was the sole link to his past, the one person who offered a possible way of deciphering it but was seated behind a magic barrier impenetrable to Ronan.
'' That old man?'' one of the men chuckled, shaking his head.
'' He has been acting grumpy since that night. Seldom speaks with anyone anymore. He has been looking after the entire mansion alone now. Hardly comes here anymore' He has not been here for quite a long time. It's an old story.
The words hit Ronan more seriously than he had expected.
Alone, Flint had been alone for all this time. Survivor to a massacre-left with only the hollow mansion and its ghosts, victors among the family he once served.
And he was now Ronan's only hope.
''Can I meet him?'' was all Ronan found to say, his tone tinged with urgency.
They exchanged glances, and one sighed. ''The mansion is protected by magic; only the descendants of that family can break it.''
Ronan's stomach twisted.
So close, yet entirely unreachable.
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. Shadows flickered in the firelight all around, reflecting the dark uncertainty settling into his heart.
Is this the end?
But just then, as he started to sink deep within that helpless feeling, a woman across the fire spoke.
''If you really want to see him, just wait a few days.''
Ronan's head snapped up. ''Why?''
She sneered. ''Just because old man Flint might be a hermit, he has a buckling weakness-compelling gossip. He generally cannot stay away from it for too long. Just wait a few days, and he will turn up here. He always does.''
Hope leapt for Ronan's chest.
A few days. That's all.
Flint would come, and he would come prepared for that moment.
Until that day…
He glanced at Issac, the boy watched him keenly, tracing deep shapes along the edge of the formerly broken royal blue stone.
Ronan sat up straight-he had a new responsibility.
While he waited for Flint, he also had to help Issac recover what rightly belonged to him.
Anchor card.
A Firelit Circle of Gossip
As the hours dragged on, the conversation had melted into gossip about the palace. Low-ranking staff who had put in long hours were now loosening their tongues in front of the dying embers.
"Did you hear about the latest of Mirna's tantrums?" said the older man. "She threw her breakfast tray at the head chef, because the eggs were 'too symmetrical.'"
The young woman snorted. "I heard she tried to exile a gardener for 'walking too loudly' in the palace grounds. Honestly, had the Queen not doted on her, someone would have thrown her down the well by now," she laughed.
Laughter bubbled around the circle.
Now a boy leaned close, lowering his voice. "Sir Gallian--the 'bravest knight in the kingdom,' they say--fainted at the sight of a mouse in the royal stables."
Ronan raised his eyebrows. "A mouse?"
The boy nodded. "A little one. The stable boys said he screamed the most pathetic scream and clambered on a barrel for dear life. They had to bribe him down with bread!"
Isaac stifled a laugh. "That must make his anchor card the 'Card of Overreaction.'"
The firelight danced over the smiling faces, and for an instant, Ronan allowed himself to feel its simple, human warmth.
But the rest of his mind was somewhere else.
Because somewhere out there, Flint was holding answers.
And Marcus…
... was playing a dangerous game with stolen magic and disappearing children.
The why still shadowed Ronan like a dark rain.
But for sure, he would not leave this city without answers.